The hobo dinner went over well, despite the fact that the tin foil I bought was not heavy duty, and kept tearing, and I spilled wine everywhere, and I forgot to add salt and pepper before it was cooking, and if his unpeeled carrots were as sandy as mine were he was polite enough not to point it out (however, I doubt this, his carrots must have been less gritty. Polite he's not.) Damn, though, it's a good dish.

I am so unbelievably frustrated right now that it isn't even funny. It's two in the morning and by all rights I should be asleep, but I'm frustrated. Frustra.

Is it really his job on this beautiful lovely earth to cut me down to size, to mock condescendingly that which I just enjoy (without apologies, and without even much charm, or humor that I can feel). Is it something that neither of us are getting, is it some cultural connection that's missed? Is there something wrong with me?

I feel a sort of wrangling between us that leaves me utterly inarticulate. Please, please don't let us talk about politics anymore, please, please don't make me have to sit around and apologize deferentially about my country. Please, please don't remind me of how complacent I am.

He doesn't get me sometimes. He doesn't get the jokes I make at my own expense. And sometimes I don't realize how I sound - I don't realize how much I talk shit up, how much I try to sound (though it's not really trying, because I swear upon many Bibles that it isn't intentional) like I know what I'm talking about when I really don't. It's like I have no conception of how I sound to others.

I'm frustrated, but I'm not going to give up on him. I'm exhausted, and I need to be writing letters to my best friend.

This is exhausting is what it is.

2003-02-12, this is so exhausting

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